


When did I need you?

by Captainforacause



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: M/M, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-22
Updated: 2014-07-22
Packaged: 2018-02-09 23:33:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2002305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Captainforacause/pseuds/Captainforacause
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brock had always taken him for granted, and now that he was gone, he couldn't help but hate the fact he'd let him go...</p>
<p>Warning! Mention of various triggers: noncon, dubcon, murder, blood, violence, weapons, etc. </p>
<p>This is a M/M pairing, don't like, don't read.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When did I need you?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WinterxGhost](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WinterxGhost/gifts).



> Written on a whim for the lovely Winterxghost.

He was used to this - or he should have been - the muted silence of the companionless home he returned to again, and again... 

Heavy boots, caked with clay and rainwater alike, trudged a familiar military march down a tiled corridor as muscle memory carried the agent's hollow body down it's halls in search of solace through hot, cleansing, water. A series of dull thumps and clicks, trailed in his wake, holsters and weapons littering the brunet's path like a series if clues, each hinting it's own piece of forlorn history through etched tallies and battle-weary grazes, masked only by shoddy paint-overs. 

Next, clothing, the boots went first, parched dirt crackling from the laces as their owner tore them from his feet; scattering filth across an uncharacteristically-polished floor. Nimble fingers danced over his harness, letting it drape over a balustrade beside his belt as he strode upstairs, and now gloves, sweat laden and torn from overuse, the leather that guarded their owner's knuckles supple and faded, stained a horrid brown from unwashed blood. 

Shirt, trousers, socks, underwear, all of it removed like a well rehearsed military manoeuvre, discarded into the basket that still wreaked of another man's leather gear, making him pause to linger on a scent - cringe worthy, but hearty, memorable, near strong enough to taste - his hazel gaze flickering momentarily to the bed that lazed in the centre of his room. Empty now, and would probably stay that way. 

It was never beautiful or graceful, the way Rumlow tramped about his home, not in comparison to his performance on the battlefield, the way he twisted and moved like a gymnast over coarse terrain and gritty battlefields. Which for a man of his age and build, that was difficult to achieve, and the thought brought a flickering smile to his lips as Brock ducked his head under the force of the shower's flow. It was symbolic in a way, atoning the assassin's sins as the near scalding liquid drew rivulets down his body and cleansed the scars and scabbing wounds that littered his torso; rinsing away scum from self inflicted lacerations. 

He had always been broken, it was one of the agent's defining traits; Order through Pain, drilled into his head like an anthem to be recited in times of need, and boy did he recite it. A sodden towel slumped back over it's rail as the man murmured his pledge again, burying immaculate nails into bruises to see them bite back with a harsh crimson. The mission wasn't enough, never was, not the bullet wounds or the lacerations, more, more, more, it was never enough till he was broken and bleeding, mourning himself to sleep at night over the need for the one he deemed his play toy.

It had Steve now, there was no more room for the hardened soldier that was Brock Rumlow. It had moved on, and perhaps he should too. 

A slow advance manoeuvred him up the bed by the window, eyes long since accustomed to the silvery moonlight alighting his trajectory, and body far beyond ruined, aching and creaking like an old machine. Brock ALWAYS took this side, preferred the window and it's invasive nature, the other side was His - the sheets still unwashed, marked by His scent - no one slept there, not now, not ever, he'd sooner slay an intruder who desecrated his home as such - already had; a worthless whore, somebody no one would remember. 

Though something was wrong, it began as a clench in his gut, angry and unwelcome but not uncommon so it was brushed-off. Rolling over, tears streaked his cheeks and a mewl escaped the brunet as he broke his own rule and crossed that boundary, slinking onto His side of the bed, surrounding himself with the man's scent and honest to god sobbed. Just once, no more - he lied to himself - shutting his attention off to the pitiful sounds and name that escaped him as he coiled around the pillow, mollycoddling it to his chest like one would a child. 

And that's when he said it, confessing his darkest sin into the feathered down of James Buchanan Barnes' personal pillow, whimpering out three unforgiving and unforgettable words in nervous apology. 

"I love you..."


End file.
